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Chapter Fourteen

REVEREND POWELL WOKE Vince up at eight a.m. “Rise and shine,” he said, opening the door and poking his head in. “Frank’s making breakfast. Come out and join us. We got a lot to talk about.”

Vince groaned and rolled over. He rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window. He could tell by the sunlight streaming through the curtains that it was going to be a warm day.

He shuffled out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, and padded to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, finger-combed his hair, and reached for the toiletry bag he’d left on the counter last night before turning in. He brushed his teeth hurriedly, wondering what happened in the last seven hours or so that he’d been asleep.

When he emerged from the bathroom the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee greeted him. Frank was standing at the stove, cracking eggs into a skillet. “How do you like your eggs, Vince?”

Vince rubbed his eyes again. Frank was standing in front of the stove wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. In addition to his heavily tattooed arms, his chest and back were tattooed as well. So was his right thigh; some kind of design snaked down below the hem of his shorts, stopping just shy of his knee.

“Well?” Frank was waiting for an answer.

“Over-easy, I guess.” He entered the kitchen, honing in on the coffee. “You can cook, too?”

Frank snorted. “What, you don’t think that I can cook? Shit!” Frank cracked two more eggs into the skillet and turned to another skillet, turning the bacon over with a pair of tongs. “I’ve been on my own since I was twelve years old, dude. I can probably cook Emeril or Wolfgang Puck out of the kitchen.”

“I can vouch for that,” Mike Peterson said. He was seated at the dining room table, a newspaper spread out before him. He was wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He took a sip of coffee. “The man can make a mean casserole.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Frank said. He put two slices of bread in the toaster. He turned to Vince, looking more awake than Vince felt even though he’d gotten less sleep. “That’s the trouble with people like you, Vince. You take one look at me and figure because of the long hair and all the tattoos that the only thing I can fix is my motorcycle. I’ve never owned a motorcycle. What they don’t know is that I can cook any damn thing I want to, can brew a great pot of coffee, and can write most best-selling authors under the table even though I’m not being paid to do it.” He grinned. “I’m also the best husband and father in the world!”

“Of course you are,” Reverend Powell said, returning to the kitchen from the master bedroom. He’d changed into fresh clothing—clean blue jeans and a white cotton T-shirt. Reverend Powell looked to be in a better mood this morning, too. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Frank, what you’re preparing smells wonderful. Vince! Have some coffee and join us at the table. We have a lot to talk about.”

Vince sat down at the table with his coffee and took a glance through the Sports page of the Lancaster Intelligencer. Frank puttered in the kitchen, tending to the eggs and bacon, serving them up as they were finished. By the time he seated himself at the table Vince was already halfway through his breakfast, which also consisted of a glass of orange juice. “This is great,” Vince nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Thanks, Frank.”

“Don’t mention it,” Frank said, digging in.

“I’ve already told this to Frank and Mike,” Reverend Powell said, pausing from his breakfast. “I spoke to Tom Hoffman this morning. He wants to meet them.”

Vince glanced at Mike as he chewed on a piece of bacon. Mike nodded. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“Tom Hoffman is a brother in the Lord,” Reverend Powell said, returning to his breakfast. “And he’s a solid law enforcement man. He also has first-hand knowledge of the crime scene at Maggie’s home, so he’s seen what we’re up against. I didn’t tell him everything we discussed last night, but… he seems to have a feeling for what’s going on.”

Vince looked at Mike. “Are we going to tell him?”

Mike shrugged. “I don’t know. I want to meet him first.” He looked at Frank. “Right?”

Frank nodded as he dipped his toast in egg yolk. “Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. But I still say we play our cards close and don’t reveal too much. I want to check the guy out.”

Mike turned to Reverend Powell. “Do you have a personal computer?”

“Yes. In my office.”

“Mind if I use it?” Frank asked.

“No, I don’t see why not. Can I ask why?”

“Just some things I want to do,” Frank replied, taking a bite of egg-yolk dipped toast.

“You want to check out Tom Hoffman, is that right?” Reverend Powell sounded both surprised and slightly angry at the idea.

“Hank,” Mike said in a soothing tone. “We have to make sure—”

“Make sure of what? I can assure you that Tom Hoffman is a man of good standing. Why, he’s a deacon at First Presbyterian Church here in Lititz!”

“I understand that and I apologize,” Mike said. “But we have to check. Please respect our cautionary approach to this, Hank, but—”

“No, you’re right,” Hank Powell said, holding up his hand. He attacked his breakfast, spooning eggs and bacon into his mouth. “You guys have been in this battle longer than I have. You know what we’re up against. I won’t say anything.”

They were silent for a minute. Vince could tell that Hank Powell was irritated at the thought of Tom Hoffman being checked out. Vince would have felt the same way last week, but now he felt glad they were taking such extreme measures. They had to.

Mike broke the brief silence as he finished his breakfast. He took a sip of coffee. “Okay, here’s the plan. We meet briefly with Tom Hoffman. Where did you say we were to meet him, Reverend?”

“The Family Cupboard Restaurant and Buffet on Newport Road at ten-thirty,” Hank said, still eating his breakfast. “He has an early shift today. Ten-thirty is his break-time. I told him we’d meet him there for coffee.”

“Fine,” Mike said. “That gives us enough time to grab quick showers and head over. When we get there, Vince will have to ask about the investigation. I’ll be acting as his lawyer and Frank will act as a body guard.”

Frank snorted. “Falling back on that cliché again, I see.”

Mike ignored Frank’s wisecrack. “Naturally, you’re interested as a friend of the family. If Tom Hoffman refers us to the state police or a homicide detective, we go from there. If he has information he’s willing to share, we listen and take notes. If he tries to solicit information from us, we don’t tell him anything we discussed last night.”

“What do we tell him?” Vince asked.

“We tell him we have reason to believe that the people responsible for your mother’s death may be trying to kill you, too,” Mike said. “We don’t want him to find out on his own. He can learn this easily himself. And if he finds out we’ve been withholding information, he may not cooperate.”

“You’re damned right he won’t want to cooperate,” Reverend Powell muttered. He’d put away his breakfast in less than two minutes. He scooped up the rest of the egg yolk with the last remaining piece of toast and finished it off.

“Tom Hoffman needs to know Vince may be in danger because it might help him give us more information,” Mike continued. He took a sip of coffee. “If it does, and if it feels right, we can talk later about sharing more information with him. We can discuss that after our meeting with him at the Family Cupboard. Then we’ll come back here, Frank will do some checking on the computer, Vince will call the Irvine P.D., then we’ll take a look at the report on Tom that comes up and decide whether or not we want to meet with him again.”

“Report?” Reverend Powell asked. “You guys have access to some secret database or something?”

Frank Black finished his breakfast. He took a hearty drink of orange juice. “Mike developed a complex database that has all the available information on Children of the Night cult members and their affiliates, including photographs, physical descriptions, aliases, that kind of thing.”

“Plus, Frank has a way to access certain computer systems and files on known cult members,” Mike said. “It shouldn’t take long to run a check on Tom Hoffman.”

“Well, you won’t find anything,” Reverend Powell said.

“All right,” Mike said, standing up. “Let’s get a move on!”

FRANK BLACK STUCK out like a sore thumb as the four men entered the Family Cupboard Family Restaurant and Buffet on Newport Road. Mike Peterson, Hank Powell, and Vince Walters looked like the kind of men that would frequent the place—farmers, real-estate agents perhaps, or maybe salesmen. But Frank Black, with his black Levi jeans, his Anthrax T-shirt, his black leather jacket and gloves, snakeskin cowboy boots, his dark sunglasses and his long black hair, looked like a biker from hell.

At Mike’s insistence, all four men were armed. Reverend Powell had given Vince a Kahr K9 compact 9mm handgun and an extra seven round magazine. Vince had started to tuck the gun into his waistband the way he’d seen Frank do it, then had second thoughts. Suppose the gun accidentally went off and blew his balls off? Instead, he put the gun in his right front hip pocket and the extra magazine in his left pocket. He transferred his wallet to his back hip pocket.

He knew Frank was carrying his handgun in his waistband, and he probably had a second firearm somewhere in his jacket. Mike was carrying some kind of semi-automatic handgun in his waistband, and he’d watched as Reverend Powell slipped a gun similar to the one he’d given him in a shoulder holster then drawn a vest over it, concealing it.

If Tom Hoffman saw that they were packing heat he didn’t indicate that he cared. He was seated in a back booth and he nodded at them as the four men approached him. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.

Introductions were made and Frank drew up an extra chair. A waitress approached and Tom Hoffman asked for a pot of coffee. Once coffee was served and the small talk was out of the way, Tom got right down to business. He looked at Vince. “Reverend Powell tells me you ran into a little bit of trouble out in California when you got home last week.”

Vince nodded. He told the cop a simplified version of the attempt on his life. “That’s why I called Mike,” he said. “I thought he’d be able to help, and he did. He hired Frank as my bodyguard until this thing blows over and that’s why we’re out here, to see if any progress has been made on my mother’s murder.”

“Plus, the Irvine P.D. suggested to Vince that he might want to get out of town as soon as possible while they continue their investigation on that end,” Mike reiterated.

Tom Hoffman listened, rubbing his chin as he nodded. “Do you mind if I call Irvine P.D. to verify your story?”

“Go right ahead,” Mike said.

“I’m asking Vince,” Tom Hoffman said, not breaking his gaze from Vince.

“No,” Vince said, feeling under the pressure of scrutiny from Tom Hoffman. “I don’t mind.”

Tom Hoffman turned to Mike and Frank Black. “And what do you hope to gain by coming out here, Mr. Peterson?”

“Some more information on Maggie Walter’s death,” Mike answered. “And for Vince and Reverend Powell to go through the rest of Maggie’s belongings to try to uncover some part of her background that might give us some answers to what’s happening.”

“And what exactly is happening, Mr. Peterson?” Tom Hoffman looked both wary and on the defensive.

“Somebody is trying to kill Vince,” Mike said. He took a sip of coffee and met the law enforcement officer’s gaze. His features were set in grim determination. “Maybe the same person or persons who killed his mother. I’d like to find out why.”

“The person who killed Maggie was a deranged drug addict,” Tom Hoffman said, practically spitting the words out. “Probably broke into her house to find money for drugs and she surprised him. It’s an open and shut case. Even the state police think so.”

“Who’s investigating her death?” Mike asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Tom,” Reverend Powell said gently. “They’re only trying to help.”

Tom Hoffman turned to his friend. “And I’m trying to get to the bottom of this, Reverend! I don’t know this man from Adam. And I’m not going to give him an ounce of information until I call California and verify Vince’s story.”

“Why would you think I would lie to you about somebody trying to kill me?” Vince asked.

“You tell me,” Tom Hoffman said. He leaned forward, jabbing an index finger at Vince. “You think the wacko who tried to kill you and your little girlfriend are the same people that killed your mother? What basis do you have for that? For one, your mother was cut the hell up! Some deranged weirdo tortured her, then cut her up and painted satanic symbols on the wall in her blood! That’s a hell of a lot different than some guy taking a shot at you in a crowded parking lot. And believe me, the State Police, even the FBI, are going to agree with me.”

“That may be true,” Mike said calmly. “But we would like to investigate all of our options. All we’re asking for is a little bit of cooperation so we can at least rule that out.”

“What makes you think I can help you?” Tom asked, still looking defiant.

“You’re close to the investigation,” Mike said. “And we may be able to help.”

“If you’re withholding information, I’d like to know,” Tom said, gripping his coffee cup tightly. “Withholding information on a federal crime is a criminal offense.”

“We’re not withholding information,” Mike said. “We’re just as baffled by all of this as you are. We’re just—”

“Then why did you say you might be able to help?” Tom sneered.

“Tom,” Reverend Powell said, his voice soothing. “Please. For my sake, if you can help us in any way, please… all we’re asking is for a little cooperation.”

Tom glowered at them. “If it weren’t for Reverend Powell I’d haul all three of you to the station,” he said. “I’d turn you all over to the state police. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Mike said, his voice calm. “But you wouldn’t get anywhere. We don’t know anything about Maggie’s murder. That’s why we came to you.”

“We need your help, Tom,” Vince said, hoping a word or two from him would make a difference.

Tom shot Vince a glare that pinned him to his seat. It looked like he was just about to say something when Mike interrupted him. “I’d like to ask you a question about a crime involving a pair of skinned dogs that were found a few months ago. Is that okay?”

Tom whirled back to Mike, a look of surprise on his face at the sudden change of subject. “Why? That doesn’t have anything to do with Maggie’s murder.” Vince caught the look on Tom’s face and could tell that the mention of the skinned dogs had registered something: a look of stark fear.

“Humor us,” Mike said. “And if it’s what we think it might be, I’ll tell you why it might relate to Maggie’s murder.”

Tom’s eyes were narrowed in suspicion. He licked his lips nervously, glanced behind them and around the restaurant as if to see if they could be overheard. He hunkered down over the table and the others leaned forward. “Okay, I’m just going to spit it out. You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I know what I’ve seen, and I trust the people I’ve heard this from. I also trust that Reverend Powell will believe what I have to say, too.”

Reverend Powell nodded and encouraged Tom Hoffman to continue.

“Okay, here it is then,” Tom Hoffman said. He took a sip of coffee. “Those dogs that were found skinned to death in that field this past April? Well, I was the first officer on the scene when the call came through. Now, I’ve seen dead animals before. Live around here, you get used to seeing road kill and such. But these dogs… they looked like they were definitely killed by humans. Someone had not only skinned them, but their blood was completely drained from their bodies.”

“How do you know that?” Frank asked.

“There wasn’t a drop of blood at the scene,” Tom Hoffman answered, looking at Frank briefly before turning his attention to the rest of them. “One of the veterinarians said that he couldn’t determine where the dogs were killed, but that didn’t matter. We didn’t find any blood at the scene. The vet, he thinks whoever killed them drained it with a syringe or something.”

Mike and Frank nodded. Hank searched their features. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.

“It might,” Mike said, nodding at Tom. “Go on.”

“The lady that lives across the road from the field the dogs were found in claims she didn’t hear anything the night before,” Tom said quietly. “Neither did her neighbors. I had a list of possible suspects, kids in the area that I thought might have been responsible. Misfit gothic kids, Marilyn Manson fans. I paid them a visit, questioned them. They claimed they didn’t know anything about it. I asked some of them if they knew anybody that could have done something like this. They wouldn’t talk. One of these kids, a high school dropout named Clint Jackson, has a history of domestic battery against his mother. He’s also the suspect in some vandalism at the local high school where he painted occult symbols on some lockers. I told him I had him dead to rights on the vandalism charge, told him he could be facing some serious charges if he didn’t tell me what he knew about the mutilated dogs. At first he wouldn’t talk. Then he got kinda scared and he and one of his other friends kept giving each other these side-glances. His friend, a kid named David Lindsey, told Clint, ‘We can tell him. Those guys aren’t here anymore. Besides, they ain’t gonna know.’ I asked who ‘those guys’ were, and Clint finally told me what happened. He said that a few weeks before, a couple older kids he hadn’t met before started hanging around Nino’s on Main Street, where these kids like to gather. Clint and his friends started talking to them, and were invited to their car to smoke some grass. Well, they had lots of dope with them, and Clint and David thought this was just great. They spent the next few weeks with these guys. Said they were staying in a motel on Route 772, that they were sorta passing through town. They’d go to their room a few times and hang out, get high, watch TV, shoot the shit, that kind of thing.”

“Who were these guys?” Mike asked.

“I’m gettin’ to that,” Tom Hoffman said. He took a sip of coffee. “Well, Clint said these guys gained their confidence by telling them they were into the same thing they were into: heavy metal music, drugs, sex, all that shit. Even told them they knew a lot about the occult. Naturally, Clint and David ate it up. Clint and his buddies started bitching to them about Lititz, about the church, telling them they felt that they were outsiders and their new friends exploited that. They asked Clint if he and his friends wanted to get back at the people that were persecuting them. Clint said he did. Then the guys started asking them questions about certain people in the community, nothing too personal, just stuff like, who has a lot of land, where they could get certain things—”

“Did Clint give you names?” Mike asked.

Tom Hoffman looked irritated at being asked this question a second time. “Yes, he did. Said the names they gave him were Mark Lancaster and Glenn Wilson. That they were in their early twenties and looked pretty normal, like your average jock-type guy. The Glenn Wilson fella had some tribal tattoos on his arms and a diamond studded earring, and the other guy, Mark Lancaster, he looked pretty normal. No discerning marks.”

Mike and Frank nodded, absorbed in the story. Vince and Hank Powell leaned closer.

“A few nights later Mark Lancaster asked Clint where they could get pure-bred German Shepherds,” Tom continued. “Clint told him there was a breeder in Manheim and gave him directions. Apparently Glenn checked it out. Then a few nights later they held some sort of satanic ritual in their motel room.”

Hank Powell gasped. Vince held his breath in anticipation. Frank and Mike looked like they’d heard the story before. Mike nodded, encouraging Tom Hoffman to continue.

“That’s how Clint described it, a satanic ritual,” Tom Hoffman said, licking his lips. He said these guys used some kind of white powder to make a pentagram on the carpet, then they burnt some candles.”

“What color?” Frank asked.

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. The kid didn’t say.”

“Does it matter?” Reverend Hoffman asked Frank.

“It might.” Frank nodded for Tom to continue.

“Clint said that he and his friends had an informal coven, but that they’d only held one ritual.” He took a sip of coffee, his voice low. “He said… well, basically he sounded embarrassed when he told me about it. Said that they kinda fumbled through the ritual and that they were stoned out of their minds on weed. He and David and the other kids they hung out with weren’t that serious about it, and he also admitted that they didn’t know what they were doing. Clint wound up improvising to make it sound authentic. But when they held this ritual with these guys, it was different. It was like… they were in the presence of somebody who… who actually knew what they were doing. And that they… were actually harnessing… conjuring a power.”

Reverend Powell looked grave. Vince felt his heart pounding. Tom Hoffman continued. “So they held this ritual, which basically consisted of this Mark Lancaster character calling a benediction to Satan, then instructing Clint and David to invoke their loyalty to the devil. Then they were asked if they wanted to go further. When Clint asked what they would have to do, Mark said they would have to sign a piece of paper in blood, giving up their souls. Well, David and Clint were scared, but Clint is a sharp kid. He may be a screwed up kid, but he knows right from wrong even if he has gotten into trouble before. And he thinks fast. So what he did was he shook his head and told these guys that he wanted to think about it before he made such a big decision of faith, and he asked if they could respect that. And Mark and Glenn said, yeah, they could respect that. And they concluded the ritual.”

“What happened then?” Mike asked.

“They hung out, did some partying,” Tom Hoffman drained his coffee cup. “Clint told me that even though he felt better about declining the offer, he still felt that he had taken a part in something that was both big and dangerous. He said that David later told him he felt the same way. They actually left the motel early that night but before they left, Mark pulled them aside, said that they would be coming to town later this year and he’d give them a call. Well, Clint and David hadn’t given these guys any clue as to where they lived. The only places they’d gone to together were the motel, Nino’s, and driving around various parts of Lititz, mostly by the town square or the library. Clint started rattling off a fake phone number when Mark kinda grinned at him and said, ‘you can’t fool me, Clint. Your number’s 626-7367.’ And Clint, he said he couldn’t help it, but he felt himself go faint. Said he probably looked as pale as a ghost. He said Dave was literally quivering beside him with fear.

“They kinda stood there for a minute, facing each other. Then Clint somehow got his composure and said, ‘yeah, that’s right. What was I thinking?’ And he and David started backing out of the motel. Mark just kinda stood there grinning at them and told them that when they came back he would know where to find them. And then he rattled off their addresses and Clint and David just kinda nodded along and said, ‘yeah, come look us up,’ and then they got out of there.”

“So in a very subtle way, these two characters were threatening Clint and David,” Reverend Powell mused.

“Yes,” Tom Hoffman said. He looked at Mike, some of the hardness in his features creeping back. “Clint said he and David left the room and wouldn’t speak about the incident again. Clint tried to bring it up to David when word got out that those skinned dogs were found, but David refused to speak of it. He said he didn’t want to hear about it again. Said he was waiting for school to end so he could get out of Lititz for good.”

“Did he?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, in a way,” Tom Hoffman said. “Two weeks ago he got picked up in Lancaster on a B&E. His family hasn’t been able to raise bail, so he’s sitting in Lancaster County Jail.”

“And Clint?” Mike asked.

“He’s gone,” Tom Hoffman said. His lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless grimace. “For a while there after I questioned him, I thought he’d skipped town, but I stopped by his house and checked on him a few days after I talked to him. He hadn’t left his house. And he refused to talk to me. I had to talk to his father through the screen door. His father actually sounded pleased at Clint’s behavior and saw no cause for alarm. He seemed to think his son has turned over a new leaf.” His lips turned upward in a slight smile. “Says all the boy does is sit in his room and read the Bible.”

“The Lord is working on him,” Reverend Powell said. “May He protect Clint in His loving grace.”

“He’s afraid to run into these characters again,” Frank said.

Tom Hoffman nodded. “That’s what I think.”

“Did the behavior get worse with the news of Maggie Walter’s death?” Mike asked.

“I asked Mr. Jackson that a few days after Maggie’s body was found,” Tom Hoffman said. “Don’t ask me why, but I had a hunch. Ben Jackson said that when Clint heard about Maggie’s death he went straight to his room and closed the door. He said he heard his son in there talking to himself, like he was crying or pleading with somebody. He said he tried knocking on Clint’s door to see what the trouble was but Clint wouldn’t come out. Said he was too scared. When Ben asked what he was scared of, Clint mumbled something. Ben thought what Clint mumbled was, ‘all my fault.’ ”

“Would Ben Jackson be the type of man to think this to mean that his son was implicating himself in Maggie Walter’s murder?” Mike Peterson asked.

“That’s what I thought,” Tom Hoffman said. “But I didn’t ask him that. I asked Ben what he thought this meant and he just shrugged and said, ‘aw, you know kids. He’s probably thinking I’m bugging him for something and he just snapped. He’ll get over it.’ ”

“Did he?” Mike asked.

“I don’t know.” Tom Hoffman looked at all four men gathered around the table. “I headed over there the next day and Ben told me that his son had suddenly packed a few days worth of clothes, took all the money in the house, and skipped town. He and his wife were just debating whether they should phone the police and report a theft when Mrs. Jackson realized it was probably their son that had taken the money.”

“Has Clint been in contact with his parents since he left?” Frank asked.

“No.” Tom Hoffman looked grave again. “He hasn’t. But get this.” He leaned forward. “Clint’s girlfriend comes up to me later that day. She tracked me down at the station actually, and told me she had some information she wanted to share. She said she was worried about Clint. I asked her if she knew where Clint was, and apparently she didn’t even know he’d skipped town.”

“He was still seeing her the whole time he was taking a sabbatical from his friends?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Tom Hoffman nodded. “Apparently she used to sneak into his room through the window. I asked her about Clint’s sudden change in behavior and she told me everything I just told you. And what she told me was pretty much what I was suspecting. Clint was scared to death of Mark and Glenn, and felt his life was in danger. He said that these guys, whoever they were, had been the real deal when it comes to this devil stuff. Clint and David and Mary Ann and these other kids, they weren’t really cult members or anything. They were just a bunch of stupid kids looking for something to offend their parents and the community with. And the occult and satanic trappings are the way to do it. They knew this, and they flaunted it. It made them feel important and powerful, like they were apart from society. They didn’t really believe in it.”

“But Mark Lancaster and Glenn Wilson did,” Mike said.

“Exactly! And Clint could tell the minute they held the ritual that these guys weren’t fooling around. They were serious about it, and that scared Clint and David. And I think what scared them even more is that Mark displayed his powers to them. Hell, the guy knew Clint was lying when he rattled off that fake phone number. Clint said there was no way for the guy to know his phone number—his parents’ number is unlisted. And they’d never been by his house, he hadn’t even told Mark where he lived. They always met on neutral ground. There would have been no way for Mark to know anything that personal about him. But when he recited Clint’s phone number and address in that smug way of his, Clint knew he was up against something. And it scared the hell out of him.

“So he told Mary Ann everything. He told her not to tell anybody, that he was afraid of what might happen to her. Mary Ann, she knew that Clint was from a troubled background, knew he was moody—”

Mike Peterson interrupted. “What kind of troubled background did he have?”

“Ben Jackson is an abusive tyrant,” Tom Hoffman said. “Man has a rap sheet a mile long for various offences in that house. He’s been knocking Clint around since he was three years old. Helen stays with him, though. Says it’s her Christian duty to stay married to him.”

“Lord,” Reverend Powell rolled his eyes.

“That’s what I say,” Tom Hoffman said. “Mary Ann didn’t want to believe what Clint was telling her at first, but when he disappeared she knew it had to be true. She’s scared. They’re all scared.”

“Are the kids they hung out with afraid?” Frank asked.

Tom nodded. “Yeah.” Tom gripped his empty coffee cup. “Mary Ann says that she thinks these guys not only had something to do with those skinned dogs, she thinks they may have had something to do with Maggie Walters’ death.”

“How so?” Mike Peterson asked.

“Mary Ann doesn’t know,” Tom says. “She just feels they had something to do with it. She says Clint wouldn’t have run off like that so soon after Maggie turned up dead.”

Mike Peterson and Frank Black appeared to think about this. Vince’s mind was racing. He had the feeling Tom Hoffman wasn’t telling them everything. “So… you’re saying Clint’s girlfriend was spreading rumors of cult involvement just based on… their own fears?”

Tom Hoffman sighed. He looked shifty, his eyes flicking back and forth. “Listen, Mary Ann told me more, but…”

“For God’s sake, spit it out, man!” Reverend Powell hissed.

“Okay, look,” Tom Hoffman leaned forward, his voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t tell you anymore here. We’ll have to go somewhere else, more private. Mary Ann did tell me more, and I checked it out and… and this shit is big. Real big, okay? Mary Ann doesn’t know how big it is, and I’m not going to tell her. Ignorance is bliss, right? The less she knows, the safer she is. When she told me certain things, though, I got curious and did some checking and found out shit that will blow your mind.”

“Tom,” Mike said, his voice just as low, his tone gentle and understanding. “We understand. We’re working on the same thing and we know how big this is. We understand the need for secrecy. Our plan is to gather and verify as much information as we can and take it to a trusted law enforcement official who has the power and authority to stop it. Why don’t we resume this discussion at Reverend Powell’s when your shift is over? We’ll show you some of the documents we have that will support what you’ve probably found out, and you can tell us more of what you came up with. Okay?”

Tom Hoffman nodded. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He still looked nervous but he was trying very hard to rein it in. “Yeah. I’d really feel better if I knew more about what was going on.”

Reverend Powell leaned forward. “Tom, trust in the Lord and you will be safe. Nothing can hurt you if you put on the armor of God.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tom Hoffman said. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go. My shift ends at two. I’ll meet you at Reverend Powell’s.”

“We’ll be there,” Mike said.

They rose from the table and Mike threw down some bills for the tip. They meandered to the cashier’s and Tom insisted on paying the bill. They said nothing of the topic at heart until they were outside, walking down the front steps of the restaurant.

Reverend Powell was walking next to Tom Hoffman. “Trust me, Tom. You’re safe in working with us on this. With our combined spiritual strength, and the wisdom Mike and Frank have on this dangerous cult, we will no doubt prevail. But we need your help. We’re prepared to share all available information we may have if you’re willing to work with us.”

“Count me in,” Tom said. They walked out to the parking lot and Vince saw that Tom’s patrol car was parked a few cars down from Reverend Powell’s mini-van. Frank Black was walking behind them, with Mike staying beside the Reverend and the law enforcement officer. An elderly couple was hobbling toward the restaurant; Mennonite couples with five children in tow were in the parking lot talking to a middle-aged couple. A woman with short blond hair and a man with shoulder-length black hair and a mustache were walking up to the restaurant holding the hands of a two-year old girl. The sky was cloudless and still, blue as the sea. A blond haired man in his early twenties stepped out between two parked cars in the row on Vince’s right and began walking toward the restaurant. Vince didn’t even know what was happening until he heard Frank shout just as he barreled into the blond man. “Mike!”

Mike whirled around, reaching for his weapon. Vince jumped at the sound of Frank’s voice and for a minute the images he received were a jumbled mass: a handgun clattering to the ground; Frank struggling with the blond man on the ground; the sound of slamming car doors and running footsteps and Mike yelling “Vince, duck!” Vince turned and saw two more clean-cut young men brandishing handguns cutting through the parking lot and he caught a brief glimpse of Mike raising his handgun and firing as he felt bullets whiz by, striking the car behind him.

Vince reacted on pure instinct. He slid underneath the nearest car and reached into his pocket for the semi-automatic handgun Reverend Powell had given him. He heard a volley of shots, heard shouts and screams and running feet as people ran for cover. He heard Reverend Powell cry out in pain, followed by another volley of shots and then excited shouts: “Get him, Joel, get him, get him, get hiiiimm!”

Then the scramble of running feet stopped and Vince saw a guy peering under the parked cars. The guy was two cars down from him. The man’s eyes blazed with hatred as he looked at Vince. He pointed a black handgun at him and Vince didn’t even think about it, he just pointed his own weapon and fired. He fired his weapon even as he was scrambling backward, trying to escape.

The guy squeezed off a shot of his own, then suddenly stiffened. He slumped down, eyes glazed open in death. Another sound of running feet and Vince was backing out from under the parked car, weapon held out, the cacophony of noise and panic enveloping him and then Mike was looming in front of him, his features panicked, out of breath. “Come on, let’s go!”

Vince followed Mike, still keeping his head low. They rounded a corner and came to the next lane in the parking lot. Vince nearly stopped right there, frozen with fear and panic. There were two men that Vince didn’t recognize lying on the asphalt. One of the men had been shot in the back twice; he was still clutching a nine-millimeter pistol. The other guy was lying unconscious a few feet away, bleeding from his nose and ear. The guy that had been shooting at Vince was lying on his stomach, part of his body underneath a Buick, still holding his weapon. Mike expelled the spent clip from his firearm and slapped another one in place. His face was dotted with sweat. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Vince followed Mike a few feet to where the others were. Tom Hoffman had been caught by surprise but had managed to draw his weapon. He was slumped on the ground by his squad car, moaning loudly, his hands pressed against his stomach to staunch the flow of blood. “Motherfuckers shot me!” he wheezed. “Motherfuckers… shot me!” His mouth sprayed a mixture of spittle and blood.

Frank Black loomed in front of them. “Are you okay?” His eyes were wide with fright.

“Where’s Reverend Powell?” Mike barked.

“They got him,” Frank said. “We gotta get the fuck out of here!”

“Where did he go?” Mike yelled, grabbing Frank roughly.

“He went to the van,” Frank said. He turned and began running to the van and Vince and Mike followed, not even caring that they were being seen by witnesses, not even noticing the screams and cries of shock and surprised outrage that were now emanating from the restaurant.

When they reached the van Vince saw that Reverend Powell had managed to get the sliding panel door open and climb in. He’d also taken the keys out of his pocket. He was lying on his side in the middle seat, his torso covered with blood. Frank grabbed the keys and leaped into the driver’s seat as Mike and Vince jumped in and shut the doors. Frank started the van and pulled out of the slot, speeding out of the parking lot onto Newport Road.

“Slow down!” Mike barked. “Slow down or you’ll get us killed.”

“You’ll get the cops on us, too,” Vince breathed. He kept looking at the road ahead of them and down at Reverend Powell, who was gasping for breath.

“Drive…” Reverend Powell gasped.

“He needs a doctor!” Vince said, feeling sick with dread. “We gotta get him to a hospital, he’s gonna bleed to death!”

“Negative,” Frank said as he headed up Newport Road.

“No,” Reverend Powell wheezed. “No… get me…”

“We can’t take him home, either,” Mike said, turning back to Vince in the rear. “Somebody had to have recognized him at that restaurant.”

“Get me home,” Reverend Powell said quickly, gritting his teeth. He was trying hard not to cry out from the pain. “Just get me to the house so you can retrieve your vehicle and get out.”

“I’m sorry,” Vince Walters said, feeling anguished at what had happened. “It’s all my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” Reverend Powell said with a hiss. “It’s the Lord’s doing.”

“Bullshit,” Frank said from the driver’s seat.

“We’re deep in battle,” Reverend Powell said, gasping for breath. “I don’t take what happened to me personally. Our adversary is the most cunning, most dangerous being in creation. He will stop at nothing.”

“But why?” Vince felt like screaming in his anguish. He hadn’t asked for Reverend Powell to be shot, hadn’t asked for any of this. He had nothing to do with The Children of the Night cult even if his mother was involved with them. He didn’t want to be involved in it. So why was he being targeted for death?

“It’s—” Reverend Powell paused as he closed his eyes in pain. Frank was driving well despite the seriousness of the situation. They were approaching Meadow Lane Road and Frank signaled for a left hand turn into the narrow country road. “It’s the will of God,” he finally said through gritted, blood stained teeth. “If it’s His will for one of us to die in battle for Him, so be it.”

“We’ll dial 911 for you when we get to the house,” Mike said. He took off his shirt and knelt down beside Reverend Powell and pressed the garment against the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “You’ll be okay.”

“We can’t just leave him!” Vince shouted.

“You can, and you will,” Reverend Powell said, gasping for breath. “Help me into the house, then get your stuff and Maggie’s box and go! And do it quickly!”

“It isn’t right!” Vince said. He felt like crying from the frustration of their situation. He was kneeling beside the wounded man. “It just isn’t fair!”

“No, it isn’t fair,” Reverend Powell said, looking directly into Vince’s eyes. “But sometimes when you obey the will of God, that may not seem fair to you either. Abraham didn’t think it was fair when God asked that he sacrifice his only son for him. And he would have done it, too.”

“Which way do I go?” Frank Black barked. They had come to an intersection. To their right lay a farmhouse; to the left was open fields.

“Right,” Vince said.

“Do as I say,” Reverend Powell said from the rear of the van. “For your sake, for the sake of the world, take your stuff and the evidence Maggie collected and leave.”

“And do what with it?” Vince asked. He felt that they were losing a war that was already lost. “What’s the point?”

“We have to find this Mary Ann girl,” Mike said. He was sitting next to Reverend Powell, patting his shoulder and keeping another hand pressed on the shirt that he held over the gunshot wound. “Maybe she’ll talk to us.”

“Yes, find her,” Reverend Powell said. “And if you can…” He coughed violently. Mike Peterson held him back so he wouldn’t tumble out of the seat. “If you can, take this information to your contact. Take the information to the press. This group must be exposed.”

Frank swung the mini-van into Reverend Powell’s driveway. “What if nobody believes us?”

“Just do it,” Reverend Powell said. His eyes glazed over, then refocused again. “I’ll… pray for you.” Then he blacked out.